Pol. 
My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

Ham.  Odd’s bodikin, man, better:  use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?  Use them after your own honour and dignity:  the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.  Take them in.

Pol. 
Come, sirs.

Ham. 
Follow him, friends. we’ll hear a play to-morrow.

[Exeunt Polonius with all the Players but the First.]

Dost thou hear me, old friend?  Can you play ’The Murder of
Gonzago’?

I Play. 
Ay, my lord.

Ham.  We’ll ha’t to-morrow night.  You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and insert in’t? could you not?

I Play. 
Ay, my lord.

Ham. 
Very well.—­Follow that lord; and look you mock him not.

[Exit First Player.]

—­My good friends [to Ros. and Guild.], I’ll leave you till night:  you are welcome to Elsinore.

Ros. 
Good my lord!

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]

Ham. 
Ay, so, God b’ wi’ ye! 
Now I am alone. 
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! 
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wan’d;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit?  And all for nothing! 
For Hecuba? 
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?  What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have?  He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free;
Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears. 
Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing; no, not for a king
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damn’d defeat was made.  Am I a coward? 
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? 
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? 
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i’ the throat
As deep as to the lungs? who does me this, ha? 
’Swounds, I should take it:  for it cannot be
But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter; or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave’s offal:  bloody, bawdy villain! 
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! 
O, vengeance! 
Why, what an ass am I!  This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murder’d,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words
And fall a-cursing like a very drab,
A scullion! 
Fie upon’t! foh!—­About, my brain!